Page 11 of A Tale of Two Dukes

No one will deny me. Especially not one such as him. For the first time since rising in rank to a duke, I actually feel the power coursing through my fingers. Hugh will never be where I am. Money or no, he will never have the same influence as me.

But more importantly, she responded to that man in fear. In opposition, her scent of arousal floods my senses, washing over me, drowning me in that heady smell. She will never perfume the air like this for anyone else. Only me.

Shaking my head, I dispel such possessive thoughts. She’s my plaything for the night, and nothing more. I cannot allow my head to be so turned by her. Though, yes, it would make sense to take a mistress, I don’t want that responsibility.

I’ve had a mistress before while I was an earl and found it exhausting. Granted, I’ve not sampled enough courtesans to learn if it was the girl or the position that dragged me down so. After the last one, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out.

I don’t want the yoke that comes with being her master. Ahh, but such a beautiful yoke. Glancing down, I watch her as her breasts strain against the tight fabric. Would it be so bad having such a gleaming jewel in my ownership?

Eyes locked onto my current nemesis, I tighten my grip, my cock pulsing against the front of my breeches. Her breaths come in small, punctuated gasps, further emphasizing the swell of her breasts.

“Such a good girl,” I croon into her ear, my balls clenching as the scent of her arousal heightens. “I’m going to relieve you of these clothes. Do not move unless you want my knife to miss its mark and mar your skin instead of this elegant fabric.”

Eyes wide, she cranes her head up to me, fear shimmering in those icy blue eyes. “But, Your Grace. This dress. I- It’s not mine to do with as I please. It belongs to Madame Douler.”

A smile lifts the corners of my lips. “I’m sure she’ll be understanding. Besides, yours will not be the first dress ruined at this establishment, and it certainly will not be the last. It’s one reason the cost of bedding you is so high.”

Her lips tremble, her mouth opening and shutting, as if she wishes to say more on the subject but remains silent. With a soft nod, she turns back to the crowd and straightens her shoulders. Far too late to put on a pretense of bravery.

I don’t call her out on it. Instead, I pull away and study the neat row of buttons that line the back of her dress. With gleeful anticipation, I run my fingers down the exquisite row.

She shivers at my touch, arousal wafting from her, soft and delicate, just like her. Such a responsive little thing. This time, my smile widens even further, reveling in the excitement of her impending nakedness.

The crowd remains silent, barely breathing. A quick glance shows the other girls weaving in and out, finding their conquests for the night. Some kneel before their masters, prepared to take hardened cocks into their willing mouths.

But there, in the very front, with nary a woman to be seen, is Hugh. His gaze locks with my own as he unbuttons himself, revealing his hardened cock to everyone. From in front of me, Kitty gasps and jerks backward, nearly running into my knife.

Now, instead of decadent arousal, fear takes its place. This simply won’t do. Shaking my head, I go back to the task at hand, hoping to divert her attention away from this maddening specter and back onto what I plan to do to her.

“Are you wet for me?” I growl out, opting to distract her with my words.

“Y- Your Grace?” she asks, her body ramrod.

“Playing coy, are we? Well then, shall I just see for myself?” Setting the knife to the side, I slide my fingers up her back, not even allowing her brain to overthink as I ease her forward, bending her over.

I make quick work of the silks and such as I toss them over her, baring her arse to my gaze. Her lower lips stand out, puffy and swollen with need. Arousal gathers on her folds, glistening in the candlelight. From here, the scent of her arousal slams into me, driving me mad.

The need to taste her, to sample the decadence so freely offered, sends frissons of need thrumming through my brain until it’s all I can think about. Dropping my fingers down to her pussy, I drag them across her delicate skin. For a moment, she stiffens, her body jerking as if to flee from my touch. Curious. Her reactions are certainly ones I do not expect.

But soon, she arches her back, bringing her body close to my fingers. Soft moans flit through the air, making my cock jerk with need. All in good time. I want to have fun with this strumpet before I empty myself into her.

Her lips are wet with need, and as soft as flower petals. My groan cuts through the air, overshadowing the soft, feminine whimpers. Dropping to my knees, I dig my fingers into her thighs, urging her to spread her legs.

It takes some coaxing, but soon, they part, allowing me access to the nectar that drips from her body. Sliding my hands up to her arse, I grip the firm globes and pull downward, forcing her to squat over my face. This time, when she gasps, there’s a tinge of censure to it.

Almost as if she’s embarrassed to be pleasured in this way. I shove it out of my mind, far more content to drink in the scent of her arousal. The most likely story is that she’s not used to performing for an audience.

Most other brothels are designed to have secret rooms and back entrances for lovers to consummate their need. At The Rose and Thorne, however, things are drastically different. We celebrate desire in all its varied forms and shapes.

Extending my tongue, I lap at her pussy, closing my eyes as her decadent cream coats my lips. She’s ambrosia, a gift from the gods. Never before have I tasted anyone quite like her.

She’s sweet, like candy, but undercut with notes of spice. The perfect treat. Like a man in a desert, I lick and suck up every bit of her arousal I can gather, drinking her up as if she’s my only salvation.

And in a way, she is. Now that I am a duke, my ventures here will more than likely have to stop. Granted, none of my friends leave this place for too long. But they have drastically cut down the number of times they cavort with the women.

I, too, will probably have to do the same. Anger burns in my gut as I attempt to turn my attention back to the whore writhing above me. She’s close. Too close. Has no one taught her restraint at all? Pushing her off of me, I channel my irritation and aggression into something else, something that’s as familiar to me as my own hand stroking my staff.

Perhaps this is why Madame Douler didn’t want me playing with her. She’s not nearly trained enough for this establishment. No matter. I’ve helped the madame with training others in these darker arts of pleasure. Kitty will be no different.